Page 9 of Rookie Season
The bar’s only a ten-minute drive away, and when I pull up at an all-white, chic building with fire lamps lining all the walls, I’m unsurprised—I definitely had Fisher pegged as the type to frequent ritzy clubs with strobe lights and bottle service.
I text him, and wait for a response. Nothing comes, so I call him. It rings off.
Call again. Same thing.
With a sigh, I glance towards the big, shiny black door ofthe establishment, then put down my windows an inch to give Harry some fresh air.
“Two minutes,” I promise, but he mewls so pathetically that I can’t bear to leave him, so I scoop him up and tuck him back into his crate. “Come on, buddy, let’s go get our keys.”
There’s no security at the door, therefore nobody to stop an underage girl wearing a dance leo and carrying a freaking cat in a crate from entering the premises.
Which is kind of athemproblem, not a me problem.
Inside, the lighting is dim, and the music is loud, and the vibe is sexy as hell. Although it’s not late yet, the girls are dressed up in short dresses and heels.
I stick out like a sore thumb.
Quickly, I scan the bar until I see a guy who looks like Fisher deep in conversation with an attractive redhead. They’re sitting close, her hand is on his thigh, and his eyes are hooded with that sleepily flirty quality the man seems to positively ooze.
Making my way over to their white-leather clad booth, I try to be stealthy, sneaking my way over without being seen. But I’m not quick enough. A bald security guard mutters something to his mustached friend, and they begin striding towards me purposefully.
“Well, if it isn’t Allegra Callahan!” Fisher cries, and I slump in relief as the security guards immediately back off.
Perks of being a newly-minted NHL player, I guess.
“Fisher, hey!” I can’t help but smile as he grins and gives me a hug, the flirty look in his eyes when he was talking to the redhead replaced with a benign, almost brotherly affection. I get the feeling Fisher kind of views me as a lost little sister he’s taken under his wing, and this makes me feel immediately at ease with him again.
I haven’t seen him since he graduated last May, but when I called Fisher to tell him I had dropped out of USG this semester, he jumped to tell me all about the room that had just become available in his place. And that it was mine rent-free for as long as I needed it if I wanted to get away from Georgia.
Which I did, desperately.
So I took him up on the offer (but insisted I pay rent), and I’m not going to lie, I’m happy to see a familiar face right now.
“Come have a drink with us,” he declares, looking more than a little tipsy.
“Nah, I’d better go,” I say, then lower my voice. “I’m underage, underdressed and?—”
“Meow,” Harry interjects.
I gesture to the pet crate. “And I have my cat with me.”
Fisher stares at me, stunned, for one long second before he breaks into peals of laughter.
“You’re a funny one, Callahan,” he says, ruffling my hair like I’m nine. “I’m glad you’ve come out to stay with us for a bit.”
I bite my lip. “Are you sure your roommates are cool with me crashing?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “It’s my place, and you insisted on paying rent, so I see no problem. I’d say come meet them, but Penn’s currently…otherwise engaged” —he gestures to the corner, where a tattooed, dark-haired guy looksverybusy sticking his tongue down a blonde woman’s throat— “and Downsby was being a little bitch tonight.”
I have no idea what any of this means, so I smile and say, “Well I’m sure I’ll meet them tomorrow.”
Hopefully when I smell a bit better.
“Sweet, catch ya later.” Fisher tosses me a key. “Your room’s the one down the hallway on the right.”
“Thank you, Fisher. For everything.”
“No worries. You know I’ve got you.” He winks at me in a jokey-obnoxious way, and for the first time since I got in my vehicle back as USG and drove off into the sunset, I feel like everything might just turn out to be okay.
